


The Consequences Of War

by presidentwarden



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Battle, Dragon Age Quest: The Landsmeet, F/F, Genderbending, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:11:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5011192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/presidentwarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fem AU nobody wanted or asked for, but is here anyway. Landsmeet showdown, with Lady Tabris plying Lady Loghain for some answers before they fight. </p><p>- - -</p><p>“It’s curious, Warden.” When silence settles in, Loghain turns to face Alma again, jaw set firmly, looking past her shoulder and into the middle distance. “When we met at Ostagar, I never imagined we’d encounter each other again. Not like this.”</p><p>“I knew we would.” Alma gives the faintest hint of a grim smile. “For women such as ourselves, our paths inevitably cross, and re-cross. I don’t believe in destiny, but I do know how powerful ambition can be, and the desire to protect one’s own. For me, the elves. For you, our nation. Our goals and methods may differ, but the spirit is rather similar.”</p><p>Loghain pauses. “That’s an interesting suggestion. Perhaps we can discuss it later, if the duel does not claim one of our lives.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Landsmeet goes smoothly enough until the vote.

The nobles scattered around state their cases in turn, calling out their grievances, casting their lots with the Wardens. One arling after another, bannorns aplenty, and Alma feels a pride growing in her chest, feet planted squarely on the floor of the vast Landsmeet chamber, a whirl of voices echoing through her sharp ears. The stone ground is hard, even beneath the lush blue carpet spread out -- an Orlesian import, from the looks of it. Maybe a souvenir from the days of the occupation. She was young when Orlais fell, but not so young that she doesn’t remember the day, the strain of joy that ran through the alienage.

Her mother came home from the war soon after. Adaia wasn’t her mother then, of course. Adoption, even in an alienage, was a tricky business. But the rogue elf, with her quick knives and quicker smiles, scooped up the little elf girl the day she returned, and told her she was a Tabris now.

Now Adaia’s long dead, of course, and so is most of the rest of the Alienage. That, or shipped off to Tevinter. There’s no point in nostalgia.

Alma’s mind whirls, but she focuses on her opponent, who towers over her, glinting in silver armor. Warm yellow-grey eyes lock onto the enemy, unflinching, as silver hair falls to frame her face, frayed from stress. “Loghain. Do you know what it was like for us the day Ferelden was freed?”

Teyrna Loghain pauses. Even in her worn-down state, the regent is formidable. Dark brows furrowed, sad eyes focused on the opponent, she draws herself up, woven black braids swishing with the turn of her head. Light pours down from the chamber’s high windows, silhouetting her in a blazing halo, and Alma doesn’t look away.

“Every day, we teeter at the brink of a return to the Orlesian occupation, and you  _dare_  ask me that?” Her voice trembles slightly, deep and resonant and laced with power. “I have given more for this nation than any noble here!”

“That’s not what I meant.” Alma paces closer, feeling the ache in her bones with each step. Her gray outfit hangs loose around her small frame; she’s grown thin in these months, unaccustomed to constant travel and the ravages of combat. Having a party around her has helped her, but for a woman who’s lived her whole life in the alienage, the transformation has been difficult. She winces, then draws herself taller, acutely aware of her smallness, her unavoidable elfiness. Her hair is smoothed over her ears, but the tips stick out anyway, which she hates. Loghain is still standing before her, beautiful and severe in gleaming armor, and Alma forces herself to raise her chin and meet the gaze of the Heroine of River Dane.

“You gave us hope.  _All_  of us, in the alienage.” Her voice raises to a louder pitch, forcing Loghain’s attention to stay fastened on her. She can hear the nobles hold their breath. Some gasp softly. One of them is leaning so far over the balcony he’s about to fall over the edge. Her party observes quietly from the sidelines; Anora lends her watchful gaze from a distance, regal and formidable, just like her mother. Alma pays none of them any mind.

“Do you know what you did for us?” Alma’s eyes are blazing now, a curious mixture of anger and grief tinting her light sweet voice. “We looked up to you. My mother fought with you. You were a commoner who rose to greatness. You gave us hope.” She eyes Loghain from head to toe, a long slow sweep of her gaze. “Granted, you’re no elf, but if you could do it, so could we. Maybe it was foolish to let ourselves believe that, but you were a heroine in the public mind, Lady Mac Tir. Think on that.”

Loghain inclines her head slightly, full mouth set in a deep frown, forehead creased in concern. “I have already. It means nothing. Let me pay for my sins, and end this, if you must.”

“Tell me, Lady. How far do your regrets for the elves go?” Alma keeps pushing, striding forward ceaselessly until Loghain falters and takes half a step back. She’s armored head to toe, while Alma wears simple cloth and leather dyed grey, but the Warden’s words pierce right through the silverite. “Would you set it right, if you could? Would you redeem yourself for the people who held you in such esteem? You ask us how much Ferelden blood is worth, but can you answer that question yourself, Loghain?”

Loghain gazes wordlessly, and bows her head, pausing. Then she sets her jaw and looks up, as if addressing the entire chamber. Her voice rings out clear, laced with strain. “Don’t think _you_  can measure my regrets, Warden. Do you imagine I’m _pleased_ about what I had to do for Ferelden? I bear burdens none of you could ever envision.” Her voice softens, just slightly, and for a moment she is sorrowful instead of strident. “If I held grief for any of it, it wouldn’t matter. The past lies where it must.”

“Very well. Then let’s consider which of us has more to show for our work.” Alma’s crossbow is strapped to her back, a light little weapon with a small quiver of bolts, but she makes no move to reach for it. She has a pouch strapped to each hip, for vials of some sort, and they clink slightly as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Dust particles swirl in the air and the hazy light; a raven cries out from the rafters, breaking the silence. Alma is unflinching.

“Shall we duel?”

“We shall.” Loghain agrees, almost in relief, and takes a step forward, armor clinking heavily around her. She cuts a stately figure, even with how heavily the plating weighs upon her broad shoulders. “Let the Landsmeet declare the terms, then. Let this end, either in your favor or mine.”

Immediately, a lightly armored lady from the balcony proclaims the Landsmeet rules -- a fight until one or the other falls. Alfstanna, that’s her name, the Bann of Waking Sea. Alma helped her rescue her brother prior to the Landsmeet, yet another in a long line of completed errands to build her power and influence. And for what? It was always going to come to this.

“It’s curious, Warden.” When silence settles in, Loghain turns to face Alma again, jaw set firmly, looking past her shoulder and into the middle distance. “When we met at Ostagar, I never imagined we’d encounter each other again. Not like this.”

“I knew we would.” Alma gives the faintest hint of a grim smile. “For women such as ourselves, our paths inevitably cross, and re-cross. I don’t believe in destiny, but I do know how powerful ambition can be, and the desire to protect one’s own. For me, the elves. For you, our nation. Our goals and methods may differ, but the spirit is rather similar.”

Loghain pauses. “That’s an interesting suggestion. Perhaps we can discuss it later, if the duel does not claim one of our lives.”

Alma lifts an eyebrow. “Then I’ll try to be gentle. I wouldn’t want to miss such an insightful conversation.”

“I am sure we will have much to discuss.” Loghain draws her sword, a hefty blade of fine craftsmanship, and hefts her shield over one strong arm, a battered bulwark engraved with Gwaren’s draconic heraldry. Her very own teyrnir, bestowed by Queen Maric two decades ago, which now hangs in the balance, just like the remainder of her fate. She has few things left to surrender now, except her dignity, and she does not plan to lose it in front of Ferelden’s nobility. Not this way.

Her eyes lock with Alma’s, who still has made no motion to reach for her weapon. “They will follow one or the other of us, you know. Not both.”

“Won’t they?” Alma finally makes a move, unbuckling the strap that holds the bag at her hip shut. Nobles shuffle awkwardly, satin garments crinkling, and her elven ears can hear the slightest bated breath. To them, this is not just a showdown, but a spectacle.

Loghain is already pacing around her, weapons in hand, each step powerful on the well-laid stone, and Alma turns and matches her opponent’s motions, finally drawing her crossbow. It’s small enough to be wielded single-handed, and she grasps it in her left hand, finger on the finely carved trigger. With her right, she reaches into the pouch of vials, drawing something out with a bright crackling fluid within. It glows in unexpected spurts of bluish-white, and she sees the nobles staring. Perhaps grenade vials are frowned upon in single combat. Then again, this fight would be unfair without it. The Heroine of River Dane versus an alienage elf. She knows her companions must be waiting with bated breath at the sidelines. There’s no way she can win.

She flings the vial just as Loghain lifts her shield in a sudden block. Glass shatters against the sturdy surface into a million fine shards and electricity spurts out in a shock, coursing through the shield and up Loghain’s arm, and she winces, shuddering. Her armor can block blades, but not this. A drawback of Orlesian manufacture.

But this is only Alma’s first blow, and it looks like she has little more to offer. Her crossbow will do nothing against sturdy silverite, though she can put a bolt through a darkspawn’s forehead at a hundred paces in dim light. More than that, though, she doesn’t wish to harm Loghain. That would defeat the entire point of this exercise. This is a battle of wills, not wounds.

Loghain is approaching with blade drawn, and Alma steps back, heading towards the stone stairs. She’s quick, and good at dodging, but Loghain has the benefit of bulk and power, and when the warrior lashes out with the hefty blade, Alma falters and dodges, barely ducking. One inch closer, and she’d have lost a chunk of hair, or shoulder. But Loghain knows this, doesn’t she? She could have easily leveraged that blade to strike Alma down where she stood.

Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, warm gold against steel blue-grey, and then they circle again, and are back to the battle, trading blows and bolts. One lucky shot from the crossbow lands against Loghain’s shin, forcing her to one knee, and Alma takes the opportunity to drench her in a frost bomb, leaving her cold and shuddering with ice crystals in her thick black hair. She’s visibly out of breath after that, noble face filled with displeasure and pain, but she rises nonetheless, towering over Alma again, and Alma backs up a few paces, continuing the complicated pattern.

Loghain mutters under her breath as she draws near, shield raised, ready to strike a real blow and knock Alma off her feet. It won’t be hard. But Alma is quick, and fires off a shot without truly aiming, in a moment of panic when her finger closes around the trigger. The bolt leaves her bow and hurtles through the air, piercing through thick layers of cloth and embedding it in the solid flesh of Loghain’s arm. Blood trickles out, dripping slowly, and falls upon the pristine blue Landsmeet chamber carpet, staining it dark.

Alma inhales sharply, faintly shocked at her own success to land a shot, and looks up at Loghain, whose eyes are blazing now, mouth open as she draws a breath and grits her teeth to counter the pain. The blow hits before Alma can even brace herself, sending her through the air and slamming roughly into one of the wood panels supporting the balcony. She scrambles up and back, but Loghain is over her, sword raised, and Alma dodges with a hair’s breath of space, weaving through the crowd of nobles to take her place atop the steps. Loghain pursues, slower this time, but unavoidably, and Alma has just a few seconds to ready herself and duck. They continue like this for agonizing minutes, up the steps and down again, past the curtains shrouding the chamber’s throne, with Alma flinging vials when she can and Loghain landing glancing blows with her shield. Not enough to draw blood, but Alma’s almost certain her ribs are cracked now. Not that she didn’t deserve it for being careless.

At last they’re in the corner together, at close proximity, holding each other at bay with Loghain’s hand trembling in her sword grip and Alma’s hair tangled around her face, chest heaving as she works to draw breath.

“Come with me.” The elf is the first to speak. “Let’s end this.”

“For what? I cannot yield. I must not.” The words  _‘not to you’_  rise hot as bile in Loghain’s throat, but she bites them back. Alma has justly won everything she’s earned so far. “We’ve both… come so far.” She wants to clutch at her arm and work out the arrow, but that’ll just hurt her more. That arm is weakened now, though, and the damage is clear. “We may as well settle this fairly.”

“We have.” Alma breathes in cautiously, testing her ribs, and winces sharply. “We’re evenly matched, I think. But if this is how we must do it…”

“No.” Loghain’s voice rises, then falls again. “I am ready to give my life for Ferelden. I always have been. You must know this. But I don’t intend to give it up in the Landsmeet’s disgraceful corner, brought down by my own clumsiness. Let me die in front of the nobles I saved, then, as the Maker clearly intends.”

Alma stands up taller, steadying herself. “I _said,_  let’s end this.” She ventures down the steps, one hand pressed against her side and wincing with each step. Loghain follows, wounded right arm trailing and the tip of the sword scraping against the floor in a horrible clatter, but she lifts it with effort, the nobles’ stares fixated still upon her. What a triumph it must be for them, to see the commoner heroine brought down so low.

“One final blow.” Alma’s voice is soft as a murmur, shifting her weight from foot to foot to try to divert her attention from the pain. Discreetly, she’s drawn a glove from her pocket, tugging it onto one delicate hand. “We’ll both have a chance. May the better of us prevail.”

Loghain inclines her head in a nod, sweat-damp braids swishing as she draws herself up and readies her good arm with the shield. This is her final opportunity, though she sees her horizon growing dim already, an inglorious fate ahead no matter what the outcome. Alma keeps her distance, one hand in her pouch of bombs. One last vial, one last strike.

Stillness hangs in the air, and then they hurl themselves at each other, Loghain lunging in a perfectly timed shield-bash and Alma flinging herself forward and dodging past her to avoid the brunt of it. Loghain circles back and readies her shield again, still bearing the force of the motion, but Alma is ready now, and there’s no time to hurl the grenade. She holds it tight and lets her fist collide with the center of Loghain’s silverite breastplate, crushing the vial and the shards of glass in her gloved hand and sending a powerful shock coursing through the silverite and through Loghain’s armored body, as excruciating as a strike from lightning.

Loghain staggers, then falls to her knees, eyes shut, head bowed.

The silence is painful. Alma steps back, boots crunching lightly on the scattered glass shards, and gives Loghain space to catch her breath, but it’s clear she won’t rise and strike another blow. Gradually, she opens her eyes, setting down her sword and shield with a certain grace beside her. “I was mistaken about you, Warden. You are as formidable as the queen I once served.” She looks into Alma’s eyes, gaze softening. “I yield. Do what you will.”

Alma tugs off her glove, casting it aside with its embedded glass splinters, and takes her time in approaching. “Thank you, but I’ve already chosen.” Her arms rest at her sides, the bags at her hips emptied, crossbow laid elsewhere. The audience is irrelevant, a mere footnote; their applause falters and dies off after some moments. She stands before Loghain, inspecting the fallen warrior for some long moments, and lets the silence settle in again like a comforting blanket, marred only by the broken sounds of Loghain’s labored breathing.

Alma reaches out, gently cupping Loghain’s jaw in the palm of her hand, and lifts her chin ever so slightly so their gazes can meet, stroking the smooth skin of her cheek with her thumb. “I told you before we fought.” The faintest of smiles. “We still have things to discuss.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One thing leads to another, and Alma is in over her head for once. Now she and Lady Loghain are figuring out how to persevere, separately and together. It won’t always be as easy as these quiet hours after the Joining, waiting for the new Warden to wake up.
> 
> \- - - 
> 
> Loghain winces rather visibly. “I did what was necessary at Ostagar, you know. My mistakes lie in everything after that. I cannot bear the blame alone, not in the face of Cailan’s insubordination.”
> 
> “I know.” Alma arches one delicate eyebrow, idly stroking a finger along Loghain’s jawline. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. I was there.”
> 
> “So you were.” Loghain shifts up on her lap, head resting against Alma’s chest now. She’s finally starting to feel a bit better, the Joining’s after-effects wearing off slowly but surely, the knot in her stomach uncurling and the slight fog cast over her brain lifting at last. “I am wondering about something you mentioned before we fought.”
> 
> “What’s that?”
> 
> “Did you really know we’d meet again after Ostagar?”
> 
> Alma leans down to murmur into her ear, lips brushing gently against her temple. “You haven’t left my mind since Ostagar.”

The rest of it is a blur.

Alma rubs her temples, and sits against the hard stone wall, sighing. She’s robbed a pillow from somewhere in Eamon’s estate, and has propped it under her lower back to try to lessen the discomfort, the room’s rugs all gathered up and piled beneath her. A headache is building. That much is unavoidable, after the Landsmeet’s thrilling conclusion.

Someone has been conscientious enough to bring her a health potion to lessen the headache and her other pains. That was Riordan, now that she thinks about it. The Orlesian warden had prepared the Joining recipe immediately for Alma’s newest recruit, and a potion on the side to speed the recovery of her ribs. One of the mages, the dark little fiery elf she keeps with her, tried to mend and set them with magic, but even the most skilled healer mage can’t cure the lingering pain. So she chugs the potion gratefully, wincing.

Light streams down from the high window set in the roof of this luxurious study, casting dappled patterns on the rough stone. Alma’s been sitting like this for hours, waiting patiently as her new Warden sleeps off the Joining’s effects. The shadows shift again, and a beam of light strikes down, silhouetting Loghain’s face in a perfect halo. She lies spread out on the floor with her head in Alma’s lap, still armored except for one arm that’s been stripped of its pauldron and glove, the sleeve of her shirt awkwardly cut off at the shoulder. A bandage has been carefully wrapped around the arrow wound, a poultice of healing herbs plastered beneath to speed the recovery. Her chest is hidden beneath the heavy silverite breastplate, so the only sign of her breathing is a faint rise and fall at the hollow of her throat, eyelids fluttering every so often. The consequences of the Joining are harsh, but she has not paid the ultimate price.

Still, despite her safety, Alma watches over her.

The warrior stirs in her lap, the fingers of her injured arm uncurling and stretching out, and her eyes slowly open, those sad heavy-lidded grey eyes that Alma finds transfixing. Loghain blinks a few times, gazing up at the ceiling and trying to get her bearings, and Alma holds very still, not wanting to disturb her. Finally she clears her throat, as if testing her voice. “We’re... still in Eamon’s estate, aren’t we.”

“Yes.” Alma’s mouth twitches up at the corners in the faintest of smiles. “I’m sorry to tell you, yes, we are.”

“What a pity.” Loghain rubs her eyes, sighing, makes a move as if to get up, and sprawls out again, armor clanking on the floor. “The Joining is more potent than I expected. I think it could be sold as a substitute for dwarven ale.”

“Perhaps, but that would result in a great deal many more Wardens for me to supervise, and all of them rowdy Orzammar drunks.” Alma settles back, wincing suddenly at a twinge in her ribs, and groans under her breath. “I’d rather focus my attention on a select few.”

Loghain gives her a meaningful look, one dark brow lifted. “After our newly chosen monarch’s fit of temper at the Landsmeet, I think you have only one Warden left.”

“Don’t remind me.” Alma shakes her head, gray hair falling into her face, and she idly motions to push it back behind one ear, but stray strands keep coming free, framing her high cheekbones and strong jaw. Loghain turns in her lap and reaches up to do it for her, battle-worn fingers carefully tucking the locks of silver behind one delicate pointed ear, and Alma’s eyebrows lift a little.

They study each other. Then Alma breaks the silence, clearing her throat. “I’m sorry about Alistair. I didn’t expect that.”

“Immaturity is hardly an unknown trait for a Theirin. Don’t make yourself bear the responsibility for supervising one of Maric’s brood.”

“There is that.” Alma sighs. She is so, so tired. From the fight, and then the resulting spectacle -- Alistair’s tantrum at the recruitment of a traitor into the hallowed Warden ranks, and then Anora’s consternation at Alistair’s appointment to co-rule, and Eamon gloating over Loghain’s defeat, and the Revered Mother one step away from declaring it all a heresy. “It was all I could do to let them reign together. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not the worst calamity to befall Ferelden, trust me. Anora still rules, and having a Theirin beside her will help boost the legitimacy of her power.” Loghain looks infinitely weary. She makes a move to rub her bandaged arm in a sudden fit of discomfort, but Alma catches hold of her wrist, and she stills immediately. “With that said, I worry for my daughter. I always will. No amount of consolation from public opinion will soothe that. I despise the fact that she requires a ruler of royal blood on the throne beside her in order to be  _palatable_  to men like Eamon.”

“Alistair will step aside and let her do her work, one way or another. Don’t forget, I’m the Warden. I hold power in this nation to rival the throne.” Loghain’s brow furrows at that, and Alma issues a faint grin. “I won’t use my influence for ill. I promise.”

“No, you certainly haven’t yet. You’ve done well enough at saving this nation, and me, from my own mistakes.” Loghain shifts again, almost clumsy in her heavy armor, and gets more comfortable, still laying with her head in Alma’s lap. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to help me remove my armor. I am no longer truly the Heroine of River Dane, much less regent or advisor to the throne.” She sighs, running a hand through her tangled black hair. “Besides, I’m starting to overheat.”

“Certainly.” Alma reaches for the buckles and straps that attach the remaining pauldron to her shoulder, prying it off gently and setting it aside. “This armor is remarkably well-preserved. Consider me impressed. It does seem a bit large for you, though.”

“It  _is_ a bit large for me. I stripped it off a chevalier after River Dane.”

“I know. I’ve heard the stories more times than I can count.” Alma deftly undoes the fastenings for the chestplate, nudging her to sit up, which Loghain does, though clearly still weary and in pain from the Joining, and waits patiently. Alma struggles to remove it until the larger woman finally takes pity and pries off the polished shell of silverite, setting it aside before lying back down in the Warden’s lap. “...thank you. That’s also heavier than I expected.”

“I can tell. It’s heavy to wear as well, though well worth it, to celebrate a triumph over the Orlesians.” Loghain gives a rueful half-smile, full mouth drawing into a faint frown soon after. “It was enchanted to resist magic, so it couldn’t be re-fitted that way. I suppose as a Warden, I will be taking up a new mantle regardless.”

“Yes, you will. I’m pleased to announce that Warden blue looks good on nearly anyone.” Alma is busy working off the sheet of chainmail wrapped around Loghain’s broad hips, unbuckling it and determinedly laying it aside. The ornate knee plates and greaves go next, then the boots, with Loghain’s quiet cooperation. Beneath it, she’s wearing a shirt of plain light cloth, missing one sleeve to make room for the bandaged arm, and thick woven leggings in a dark fabric that’s soft to the touch as Alma’s fingertips idly trail along her muscular thigh.

Loghain’s eyebrows lift very slightly, but she’s gotten comfortable in Alma’s lap again, not inclined to do anything other than rest and recover from the Joining’s poisoning. “I’ll admit my own curiosity about your lack of armor. Most warriors wouldn’t consider that wise.”

“I’m not a warrior. I’m also arguably not wise, though I sometimes do a decent job of convincing people otherwise.” Alma fidgets, folding and unfolding the cuffs of her sleeves before finally pushing them up to reveal thin wrists with a bracelet wrapped around one. “Armor wouldn’t help me. If I need to take a blow in the course of a fight, I’ve managed the fight wrong.”

Loghain offers a rueful smile, tinged with sympathetic regret. “On that topic, I apologize. I heard the crack of your ribs when I hit you.”

“One of my mages took care of it. Don’t worry.” Alma waves away the injury as though dismissing a triviality, then fidgets with the bracelet, playing with the fine chain and the small pieces of metal woven into it. “You did well in the fight. I consider it an honor to have defeated you.”

Loghain considers this for a moment, gaze wandering from Alma’s wrist to her face. “Truth be told, _I_ consider it an honor to have fought you at all. It’s not often I face an adversary as formidable as you, a Warden risen from nothing out of her own will.”

Alma flashes a brief genuine smile. “You are formidable, too. You’ll be a valuable ally to us, and to me.” Before Loghain can open her mouth to inquire about the bracelet, Alma unclasps it, sliding it off, and drops it in Loghain’s waiting palm. “It’s made from various bits of metal I’ve acquired along the way. A little gold sliver taken from the first sovereign I earned. A piece of the wedding ring my arranged groom brought me, may he rest in peace. That sort of thing.”

Loghain reverently turns the bracelet over. It’s clearly sturdy in its construction, but seemingly too delicate to touch. “I heard about what happened with Vaughan. The whole story.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.” A mere ‘I’m sorry’ won’t cover it, so Loghain refrains from offering it, instead looking up at Alma earnestly but not quite meeting her gaze. “Now that I know the truth of what happened, I agree with what you did. I am not in a position to condemn the deeds of others now. Especially not those who do what is necessary.”

“Thank you.” Just out of curiosity, Alma tests the bracelet against Loghain’s muscular forearm. It doesn’t fit, of course, and she laughs a little and clasps it back onto her own tiny wrist, the strands of cool metal settling flat against her pale skin. “You’ll be doing plenty of despicable acts too as a Warden, I’m sure, but justified ones. Before Vaughan, I’d never killed a soul. Now I believe I’m qualified to be a labeled a cold-blooded murderer.”

“Are you sure? You seem quite skilled at fighting without actually wounding your opponent.” Loghain touches her injured arm ruefully. “Except for the occasional mistake.”

“How do you know that was a mistake?”

“I saw the look on your face when you shot me.” Loghain rubs her eyes, looking even more tired than before this process began. “Does it feel like this for every new Warden, that peculiar tugging in your gut after the Joining? It’s like the realization of a bad omen, that odd twinge of dread.”

“Yes. Nausea, headaches, dreams of the archdemon. You have so much to look forward to. You’re connected to the darkspawn now; you carry the taint, but in a way your body can fight off. It’s a curious situation. The taint has to be a certain strength, or else you’ll just become a ghoul. But the recipe they use lessens its effect. Dilutes it, neutralizes it, with lyrium, so we’ll have a good thirty years or so apiece, if we’re lucky. If not, ten.” Still, a decade is plenty. Alma fidgets with the end of one of the strands of her hair, thinking it over. “You went down faster than I did. Maybe your potion was stronger... Two men died at my Joining. A thief, Daveth, and a warrior who hoped for status among the Wardens. His name doesn’t bear mention. He did it for the glory.”

Loghain frowns, dark brows knitting together in a heavy frown. “So it was just you and Alistair, then. I believed so, but still wondered if any Wardens escaped my notice.”

“Yes, just us. And Duncan, until all those unfortunate events.” Alma thinks through it all, trying to avoid the sensitivity of the topic, and instead decides to face a different issue head-on. “I’m… I’m sorry about Cauthrien.”

“You don’t need to be. She died as she wanted to, fighting for her commander.” Loghain sighs. “Insensitive to say, I am sure, but she expressed that sentiment to me herself. She was a brave woman, and wished to follow me until the end. Perhaps if she’d put less faith in me, the situation might not have unraveled quite so miserably.” Loghain shakes her head, closing her eyes and settling in against the stone floor. “She knew how my hatred and fear towards Orlais had corrupted me, but couldn’t bring herself to betray me. There are a great deal of things I would change if I could. I wish she could have lived.”

“I’m sorry.” Alma just strokes Loghain’s hair, dark and coarse and glossy, small fingers combing through the thick locks. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” The pain of the Joining has stolen what little energy Loghain had left, so she nestles into Alma’s lap, cheek pressed against the soft grey fabric of her jacket. “It is much too late for regrets.”

Alma continues petting her hair, head bowed to gaze into her eyes. “I have her greatsword still. I kept it, but not for myself. It belonged to a great woman.”

“That was good of you. Perhaps we can commemorate her, somehow.” Loghain’s gaze roams over the study, inspecting the luxurious furnishings and the curtains that frame the windows in graceful swaths of rich fabric. Eamon’s guards left long ago, at Alma’s order, and their absence lends a calm stillness to the room. Swords and shields hang suspended over the doorframe, a display of wealth and power, and a rich Fereldan tapestry of stylized mabari hounds rests on the wall over a row of heavily stuffed bookcases with spines that glint with gilded leather. “Ah, Eamon. Still as tastelessly ostentatious as ever.”

“Yes, I noticed that. If I could confiscate property in the name of the Wardens, I’d take a few of those books. They’re going to waste.” Alma eyes the room with a critical stare, then inclines her head in disapproval. She turns her attention back to the warrior in her lap, and reaches for one of Loghain’s braids, then hesitates, clasping the end of the woven strands. “May I?”

“If you like. We have little better to do here, trapped in the corner of Eamon’s personal palace.” Loghain gives her permission with a nod, settling for stretching her legs out while lying down. She’s slightly taller than the length of the pile of stacked rugs, and especially appreciates Alma lending her lap as a pillow. Surely just a polite gesture made for convenience. Alma immediately unties the end of one braid, then the other, and lets Loghain’s hair untangle, smoothing out the strands with her fingers, massaging her temples gently.

Loghain relaxes gradually, almost growing heavier in Alma’s lap, her broad shoulders pressed against the elf’s thigh. Her arms are folded across her full chest, powerful hips and long legs resting on the pile of Eamon’s carpets. “It’s been quite some time since anyone helped me with my braids.” She contemplates this. Too long to think about. “Thank you, Warden.”

She smiles sweetly. “Call me Alma.”

“Very well. Then thank you, Alma.” Loghain’s full mouth quirks upward in a peculiarly charming smile of her own. “I suppose we will be on a first-name basis, now, won’t we. So tell me: am I to be your loyal lieutenant, or the defeated enemy you bring about on a leash?”

“I think you know the answer to that.” Alma deftly braids the thick dark locks of hair, one over the other, winding them together and then securing the end with a hair-tie drawn from her pocket. “What shall I call  _you?_ Teyrna Loghain?”

“No, I’ve lost all my titles. And for good reason.” She sighs. “I suppose Gwaren will pass into the custody of the crown, then. I couldn’t defend it when the darkspawn took it. All we could do was flee. It lies in ruins now. Who would want it?”

“It’s a teyrnir. Who  _wouldn’t?_  I’ll see that it goes to good hands.” Alma smirks, but delicately, a wry expression that makes it clear she’s at least _trying_ not to delight in her own power. “Ser Loghain, then?”

“Certainly not. I am no longer even a knight.”

“Hm, then Lady Loghain it shall be.” Alma finishes off the second braid with a slight grin, caressing one of Loghain’s high cheekbones with her fingertips in a careless yet intimate gesture. “I assume you have no objections to that... my lady?”

“None at all.” Loghain tilts her face ever so slightly towards the touch. “It will be quite some time before I consider myself suitable for the title of ‘Warden’. I suppose it’s an honor to be earned, regardless of the unfortunate circumstances of my conscription.”

“Unfortunate though they may be, I seem to have claimed a war heroine as my very own.” Alma settles back against the pillow comfortably, wearing a supremely pleased smile. “I’ve misplaced my checklist of Warden requirements, but let me say, you’re already rather close to earning that honor. Let’s hope your next confrontation with darkspawn goes better than the first.”

Loghain winces rather visibly. “I did what was necessary at Ostagar, you know. My mistakes lie in everything  _after_  that. I cannot bear the blame alone, not in the face of Cailan’s insubordination.”

“I know.” Alma arches one delicate eyebrow, idly stroking a finger along Loghain’s jawline. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. I was there.”

“So you were.” Loghain shifts up on her lap, head resting against Alma’s chest now. She’s finally starting to feel a bit better, the Joining’s after-effects wearing off slowly but surely, the knot in her stomach uncurling and the slight fog cast over her brain lifting at last. “I  _am_  wondering about something you mentioned before we fought.”

“What’s that?”

“Did you really know we’d meet again after Ostagar?”

Alma leans down to murmur into her ear, lips brushing gently against her temple. “You haven’t left my mind since Ostagar.”

Loghain considers this, tilting her face upwards to look clearly at Alma. Silence reigns until she finds words, almost faltering, low throaty voice still filling the room despite her quiet tone.

“You, Warden, are a rather remarkable woman. I daresay I enjoy it.”

Alma answers evenly, keeping her breathing steady. “Well, as long as I’m appreciated, that’s good enough for me.”

“You will be...” Loghain trails off, finding the words rather difficult to actually voice. “You will be more than appreciated. There are some things about you that remind me of Queen Maric. Virtues, not vices.”

An indirect way of approaching the issue. Alma takes note. “Like what?”

“Charisma. To win a place among this nation’s heroes, women such as ourselves must rely on either wits or status. Some are blessed with both, like Maric, but only one truly lets us endure in this cruel world.” Loghain muses to herself, thinking back. “The wits took some time to develop, I recall.”

“They always do.” Alma settles an arm around Loghain’s broad shoulders, holding her close. Loghain is suddenly acutely aware of all the subtleties of the moment -- the softness of Alma’s slim chest and sturdy hips, the texture of the grey fabric of her fitted jacket, the way the delicate strands of her grey hair catch the light pouring in through the windows and glint like spun silver. She smells like sweet deathroot blossoms, a misleadingly pleasant scent. Loghain relaxes, and let herself contemplate the future. They both have much to anticipate.

While Loghain glances towards the hazy window, trying to make out what she can beyond the thick glass, Alma gazes at her with unconcealed adoration, admiring the nuances of her face -- high cheekbones, shapely downturned nose, full mouth. She has the sort of looks designed to be carved into the fine stone of monuments, the kind that haunt a Warden’s thoughts with more aggravating persistence than even the dreams of the archdemon. Alma’s always known it would come to a confrontation, and that she would prevail and win Lady Mac Tir to her side. And she’s heard and read enough of the legends with Queen Maric to have some understanding of what drives Loghain’s heart.

Loghain catches Alma’s eye, and they linger there for a moment, gazing at each other, mutually entranced, but cautious, as women in their situation cannot help but be. They admire each other at angles, Loghain’s noble face upturned and silhouetted by gauzy strains of warm light, Alma’s delicate face cast in shadow from the cascade of her hair and tilted down for a better look at the woman in her lap -- defeated, conquered even, but still brave, determined to uphold her duty. Alma feels a swell of admiration. And then Loghain lifts herself a little higher, lips parted, and Alma instinctively leans down to meet her mouth, and neither can resist.

Loghain tastes of sweet lyrium mixed with bitter blood, and Alma still tastes like the flavor of medicinal elfroot, but they ignore this and kiss until it aches, tongues mingling, Alma’s fingers twisting in Loghain’s thick dark hair and Loghain’s hand gently clasping the collar of Alma’s jacket, thumb brushing against her collarbone. They draw shaky breaths in between, held secure in each other’s arms, and when they’ve had their fill they close their eyes and take comfort in touch. Alma’s chin rests gently on the top of Loghain’s head, and Loghain’s temple is pressed against the base of Alma’s throat, long strands of silver elven hair falling into her face. The Heroine of River Dane aims a smile up at the Heroine of Ferelden -- a real smile -- and reaches up to tuck her Warden’s hair behind her ear, again. What to even say? “You ought to try braids. They would flatter you.”

“I’ll consider it.” Alma gives a nervous little laugh, intercepting Loghain’s hand and squeezing it gently. She feels a sudden stab of guilt and doubt, but the interlacing of their fingers is enough to soothe her. “I-- I assure you, I don’t treat most defeated adversaries this way. None, actually, except for you.”

“I know.” Loghain touches her shoulder, a gesture of attempted comfort. “Trust me, I am not about to call your integrity into question.”

“Thank you. I don’t quite know what got into me.” Alma pauses, then looks down at Loghain. “...Yes, I do.”

“Yes, you do.”

“The others mustn’t know. I would be ruined.”

“Naturally. Then that would make two of us.” Loghain finally disentangles herself from Alma’s grasp, but reluctantly, laying across her legs instead of being pressed up against her chest. “I believe I feel well enough to stand. I suppose I ought to. And I should at least make some pretense of finding armor to replace the River Dane set.” She pulls herself to a sitting position, eyeing Alma, who’s still resting against the wall, looking guilty and delighted. “You can say you stripped it from me as punishment for my crimes, if you would like.”

“I’d rather not suggest to the others that I stripped anything from you at all.” Alma gathers herself up, standing with shaky legs and steadying herself with a hand on Loghain’s muscular shoulder. Loghain gets up easily enough on her own, drawing herself up with the grace of a powerful warrior, and Alma finally has a chance to look at her properly, gaze sweeping over her from head to toe. She chews on her lip, fidgeting with the cuff of her jacket again. “You are  _remarkable.”_

“Thank you, Alma.” Loghain paces off towards the end of the room, investigating a weapons stand with a dusty breastplate and fur-lined boots with greaves that look to be about the right size. Especially for a woman, she is formidably tall and well-built, capable of wearing nearly any sturdy set of armor, though not often seen without her trademark suit of defeated-Orlesian plate. She slides her legs into the boots, accepting the comfortable result, and dusts off the breastplate with her fingertips, a vest of mail and leather that looks like a Fereldan antique. “I doubt this has been touched for a decade.”

“I’d ask if Eamon would mind, but I don’t think I really care.” Alma approaches Loghain, who’s settling the chestpiece over her shoulders and around her torso, and gently touches her hip with hesitant fingertips. “May I help?”

“Certainly.” Loghain takes care of the buckles in the front herself, securing it snugly around her upper body, while Alma fastens the straps at her waist, then discreetly stands on her tiptoes to reach her shoulders. When the armor is properly fitted, Loghain turns to face Alma, who’s stepped back to quietly marvel at the height difference. Loghain is striking even in plain clothes, and in the River Dane armor she is captivatingly formidable, but simple armor such as this highlights her looks and stature best, in Alma’s entirely unbiased opinion. Alma snaps out of her reverie to pay attention to Loghain’s low voice, soothing but with a commanding edge. “If I’m not mistaken, Anora wished to meet with you after my Joining.”

“Yes. I believe she did.” Alma nods, hands resting on her hips. That was a stipulation made after the Landsmeet deal was concluded, made for some reason or another. “She’s a powerful woman. Like mother, like daughter.”

“She has excelled far beyond me, and I’ve always been proud of her.” Loghain runs her fingers through thick dark hair, shaking her head to let it settle around her shoulders again. “Well, I have formally survived the ritual, intact. I am sure the others consider it a pity that I couldn’t just make a graceful and permanent exit.”

“The others, maybe.” Not Alma, of course, but that doesn’t even need to be stated. She folds her arms, looking up at Loghain with a tilt of her head and a faint sweet smile. She makes the slightest gesture towards the doorframe. “I… should go. I promise it won’t be long.”

“Take your time.” Loghain rests a lingering hand on Alma’s slender shoulder. “Should any of Eamon’s gilded books go missing, is there any particular genre that would interest you?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “History. But don’t you dare.”

“Very well. I won’t mention it again.” Loghain strides off towards the corner of the room to retrieve her armor, but glances back over her shoulder to issue a quick smile. “Good luck.”

Alma just grins, then vanishes out the door, striding confidently ahead to face the remainder of Ferelden, feeling as though the world is at her command.


End file.
